I’m thirty years old I sell books for a living (well technically I’m a librarian but it’s the same thing right?) and my parents are coming this weekend for the whole damn three days because “it’s been too long honey you’re working too hard we just want to see you” which is code for they’re going to scrutinize every single thing in my apartment from the dust motes on the baseboards to the number of plants I have (too many is always the answer) and also the unspoken implication that they’re checking to see if I’ve finally met a suitable young man who has a good job and a sensible car and a retirement plan because apparently my job and my car and my retirement plan are not good enough for them. The problem, or one of the problems there are many, is that I have a rather extensive collection of romance novels. Not the sweet historical ones they probably imagine (if they even imagine anything beyond their own expectations for me) but the ones with the ripped bodices and the alpha males and the heroines who discover their INNER POWER (I guess that’s a cliché I’m allowed to use here) and then there’s the toys. Oh god the toys. A whole little ecosystem of vibrators and dildos and things I don’t even have names for. All of it is currently shoved under my bed in a series of discreet storage containers that are not nearly as discreet as I’d like them to be. I spent an hour last night just staring at the bulging plastic wondering if they’d survive the weight of the actual bed when my mom inevitably decides to “help” me clean the guest room (which is my bedroom they’ll be sleeping on the pull-out) or when my dad starts tinkering with something underneath the bed because he thinks he can fix the squeak. He always finds something to fix. It’s a compulsion. The thought of them finding any of it—the books with their suggestive covers the vibrating bullet that probably still has a bit of charge left—it generates a physiological response that I can only describe as a cold sweat combined with an accelerated heart rate. It’s the same feeling I get when I realize I’ve forgotten to return a library book that’s already overdue. A primal fear of disapproval. Of being seen for who I actually am not the quiet competent librarian they’ve crafted in their minds. It's not just the shame it's the sheer exhaustion of having to explain myself. Or worse not explain myself and just face the quiet judgment the subtle tightening of lips the barely perceptible sigh that communicates everything without a single word. I’m thirty. I should be past this. But here I am hiding my entire life under a bed hoping no one looks too closely.